


Funeral Wreath

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fontcest, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Mafia AU, Mild Painplay, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Orgasm Delay/Denial, rosatale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 09:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: Rosatale AU: Papyrus has Sans at his mercy and death is all but certain, but Papyrus isn't quite ready to carry through just yet.





	Funeral Wreath

**Author's Note:**

> Rosatale AU was originally concieved by the amazing eli-sin-g on tumblr, but this little piece is based on the gorgeous artwork by Ally (@alldrawnup) from [here](https://askellie.tumblr.com/post/154930247566/alldrawnup-i-had-an-idea-for-eli-sin-g-rosatale).
> 
> No actual incest because Sans and Pap aren't related in this AU, but I flagged it just in case.

It’s dangerously mesmerising, watching Papyrus at work. A thoughtful frown darts across the tall skeleton’s face as he scrutinises the table of flowers before finally selecting a single, perfect blossom. The delicate set of shears dance like magic in his hands, trimming away the excess leaves, shaping the stalk. He takes a moment to admire his work, even sniffing the head of the rose with obvious satisfaction, before carefully threading the flower through Sans’s ribcage until the petals are nestled against his sternum; a gentle weight that grows steadily more ominous as his chest is filled with vines and thorns.

Then the process repeats, Papyrus humming happily to himself with inordinate cheer, feigning obliviousness to Sans’s growing discomfort.

Sans squirms with each new addition, saliva drenching the gag between his teeth as he huffs against it, trying not to moan. Whatever drug Papyrus fed him has left his bones feeling soft and sensitive. Papyrus is much too skilled to let the thorns scratch him as he arranges the blossoms across Sans’s chest, but his own restless struggling has them shifting against the delicate inside of his ribs and spine, a dozen wicked points scouring against his most vulnerable places. He shudders, a weak whine escaping him that captures Papyrus’s attention.

“Now, Sans, you need to stay still or this will take longer,” Papyrus chides, absently adjusting a rose whose placement has been knocked askew by Sans’s shifting. His gloved fingers brush against Sans’s ribs, and helplessly he makes another, even more pathetic sound. It’s beyond humiliating, the way his magic won’t respond to his own will,  but it’s definitely responding to Papyrus. A cerulean flush shimmers beneath the blanket of flowers and, embarrassingly, down in the cradle of his pelvis. With his shirt tugged open, Papyrus has an unobstructed view right down to his tailbone, and each time he leans forward to add another flower to his growing bouquet, Sans is blatantly aware of how much he’s revealing.

Absorbed as he is with his arrangement, he’d almost think Papyrus didn’t even care, but then, if that were the case, Sans isn’t sure he’d still be alive, let alone that Papyrus would be going to such trouble for him. He knows where this is heading. He isn’t stupid enough to believe that sentiment will be enough to save him whenever Papyrus is satisfied enough to dust him…but, god, what an excruciating way to go. His cheekbones are burning, the ropes chafing fiercely at his wrists, and his soul absolutely throbbing with the need for a more satisfying touch that Papyrus seems blithely bent on denying him.

Sans shuts his sockets and tries to breathe deeply as more flowers are tucked inside of him. The soft, plush petals provide a distracting, almost ticklish counterpoint to their jagged stalks. His chest feels heavy and tight, thorny stems pressing into him from every angle, sharp and uncomfortable. In some places, so many roses have been pushed between the ribs that there’s a discomforting stretch to accommodate them. Maybe on a more robust skeleton, it wouldn’t matter, but his physical body has always been delicate. The family keeps him around for his brain, not his brawn.

Not at all like Papyrus, whose strong bones and towering form belie an easy strength…and behind his smiling persona, a mind much more cunning than Sans had ever guessed. He should be far more disappointed with himself, but Papyrus had taken him in so thoroughly it’s hard to hold it against him. Everyone meets their match eventually. Sans has finally met his.

“Sans?”

Sans reluctantly opens his eyes again to find Papyrus’s face level with his own. There’s a painfully sincere affection there – one Sans finds himself disarmed by even now as Papyrus leans in with a gentle smile on his face. His talented fingers brush lightly over the flowers blossoming through Sans’s ribs, creating a ripple of painfully pleasurable sensation as they smoothly glide down the length of his body. Sans’s sockets widen, a muffled grunt breaking through the gag as bare phalanges touch his spine. Papyrus has removed his gloves. He must be done with the flowers, which means–

His whole body convulses, eye-lights rolling as Papyrus delicately traces the ridge where his spine meets his pelvis, a long wheeze of sound escaping him as the thorns claw at his inside and his magic flares hotly in anticipating, his eye pulsing brightly but futily with cyan light. He almost misses the equally pleased sound Papyrus makes, a low hum of approval as his naked fingers delve ever so carefully to caress the inside of Sans’s sacrum.

“You’re so beautiful, Sans,” he says, entirely earnest, and the warmth in his voice only makes Sans flush brighter as he squirms in place, hips mindlessly rocking to encourage Papyrus’s exploration. It’s not until he feels a warning pulse in his chest that he realises what’s going to happen – what the consequence will be if he lets himself go. If Papyrus manages to arouse him enough that his soul manifests while his chest is full of thorns, the delicate organ will be impaled a dozen times over. He’ll be dead. He has just enough time to be horrified by the implication before Papyrus’s fingers press more firmly into his pelvic inlet, and the resulting spark of pleasure jolts him with panic.

For the first time, he fights sincerely against his bindings. When he’d first woken from his drugged stupor, he’d known immediately that there was no way he’d be able to slip the knots Papyrus had tied. He’d given up without much struggle to save his energy for another opportunity, one better suited to his strengths, but his instincts don’t care that the situation hasn’t changed. Papyrus is touching him, softly but skillfully, and the hopeful pulse of his soul warming to the possibility of connection has him growling into the gag and bucking furiously against the ropes.

The violence of his reaction actually forces Papyrus to pull back for a moment, his expression oddly blank as he watches Sans twisting in the ropes to no avail. His arms have been secured tightly behind the back of the chair, and his ankles are secured to the legs. One mighty convulsion makes the chair teeter for a moment, threatening to topple before Papyrus nudges it back again, and the sheer effort of that attempt finally forces Sans to subside, chest heaving and sweat dripping down his bones. He hasn’t succeeded in doing much more than hurt himself, his wristbones chafed and aching and the inside of his ribs freshly scoured by the thorns.

Papyrus gives him a look that’s almost piteous. “Are you done, Sans?”

He is. Done and doomed, he thinks, skull lolling to the side, turning away as much as he can from Papyrus’s expression. Now it’s only a question of stamina – how long can he hold out against Papyrus. Unfortunately he doesn’t think the answer is very optimistic.

Sans is weak. All his masks and evasions, his deceptions and tricks are only to disguise that fact. Papyrus has already seen through him – knows him too well, now, after all the secrets and vulnerabilities Sans has carelessly given away because he’d thought Papyrus too kind and too simple (too caring, too close) to use against him.

“It won’t be so bad, Sans,” Papyrus assures him, his gaze focused down at Sans’s lap as he teases open the button on his trousers. The sound of the zip lowering is inordinately loud – practically obscene. Sans feels the fabric pull back, baring the open flare of bone at his hips and groin. He tries to think of anything but the reverent way Papyrus is staring at his bones, not yet touching.

He fails to hold back a soft pleading sound. Maybe Papyrus will confuse it for a plea for mercy instead of an urging to continue. The coiling heat down in his pelvic girdle is almost too much to bear, especially under the weight of Papyrus’s gaze.

Hands settle on either side of his hips, squeezing the peaks of his illium, and Sans lets loose a ragged groan of defeat that makes Papyrus beam at him.

“Just enjoy yourself,” Papyrus encourages, phalanges trailing lower, and Sans obeys because at this point there’s nothing else for him to do. He bites down hard on the cloth between his teeth, muffling some of the fractured sounds that slip free as Papyrus explores with his fingers. He maps the layout of Sans’s pelvis by touch, thorough and attentive, delving into every notch and crest, searching for all the places Sans is most sensitive and invariably finding them. Reflexively, his femurs splay out further in a shameless offering that Papyrus diligently takes advantage of, tracing the joints where Sans’s legs meet the curve of his ischium, earning wracking shudders in return.

Sans is almost embarrassed by how little time it takes him to reach his limit. He can only blame himself and all the aching, empty nights he’s tormented himself with fantasies of this; albeit under very different circumstances. He always imagined he would be the one slowly worshipping Papyrus’s body, guiding him through the first steps of copulation. He almost laughs at the misconceptions he’d held of the other’s innocence. Sans had wanted to take it slow, to do it right, but though Papyrus’s touch is the very definition of gentle, Sans feels overwhelmed. He’s never had much stamina, and rarely fares well under such focused attention. The heady rush of danger in the climax only causes him to slip towards it all the faster.

Dizzy from sensation, it takes him a moment to register that Papyrus is unfastening the gag, allowing Sans to draw a deep, gasping breath that does nothing to relieve the painful tightness in his chest. He blinks hazily at Papyrus, his face an utter mess; flushed and heated, saliva streaking down his chin and pricks of moisture threatening to well over in the corner of his sockets…at yet the look Papyrus gives him is full of such admiration and affection, Sans might as well be the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

“Say my name, Sans,” Papyrus orders softly, and Sans realises for the first time that under all that softness there’s a hint of an edge that he made the mortal mistake of overlooking. It was there all along; he just hadn’t noticed it.

“Pah…” he tries, his tongue leaden in his mouth, jaw aching from spending so long clenched around cloth. He swallows, heaving shakily. “Pa…py…rus…”

It’s the final surrender, and Papyrus knows it. He leans in, and Sans knows instinctively that he’s going to be kissed…and that it’ll probably be the last thing he feels. His soul is pulsing with the knowledge that Papyrus wants him, recklessly craving the closeness he’s offering, already teetering on the verge of manifestation. Just one small gesture of encouragement is all it’ll take.

The kiss of death, Sans thinks wildly to himself, inwardly applauding.

He leans forward, face tilted upwards, teeth parted, ready.

Only to have Papyrus suddenly jerk back, an expression of dissatisfaction on his face. “No.”

Sans blinks, bewildered. “Huh…”

Like a switch has been flipped, Papyrus’s body is suddenly stiff, his posture uptight and his movements jerky. He turns away from Sans and yanks his gloves back on with sharp, almost vicious movements. Sans stares at him, absurdly stinging from the rejection, wondering if at the last moment the joke is on him, except Papyrus’s muttering seems self-directed and upset.

“Too soon,” he says, more to himself than to Sans. He’s sweeping the table clear of leaves and loose petals, scooping them into a nearby bin. “It’s…too soon, it’s not enough. I…”

He swings around and stares at Sans, almost startling, as if he’d forgotten the smaller skeleton was still tied there, waiting. He tips his hat, the way he’d done when Sans had been nothing more than a visiting customer passing by his small store. “I have to make a phone call.”

He stalks out, something predatory and angry in his stride. The door swings shut behind him, not slamming, but with a heavy air of finality.

The abrupt change in mood has gone a long way towards killing Sans’s mood. His soul jitters shakily, slow to calm, and he stares down at his lap as the discomforting condensation of magic starts to dissipate.

“What the…?” he has absolutely no idea how to take Papyrus’s departure, but with the room now empty and his mind starting to clear, he realises there might yet be another way for this evening to end that doesn’t leave his dust scattered over Papyrus’s flowers.


End file.
